Postal Pleasures

Author's Note: Postal Pleasures is an unusual Romance. It is about a divorced man, Michael, who was wronged by his ex-wife. He has moved on, or so he thought, and he was trying to get back to his center. It is about a beautiful, widow, Mary, living in the past, and denying herself all that life has to offer. Mary doesn't like Michael at the beginning of the story, or so it seems. The sex may be minimal for some and slow at arriving. Some might not have like it for its lack of vicarious luridness.

*****

After twenty years of marriage, my wife left me for a man she met while attending nursing college. I was the breadwinner for all twenty, and she was the "bored," her words, stay at home wife for sixteen. That's ironic, because she quit her job, shortly after we were married. She was a college student for the last four. My married life ended like a damn soap opera! The day the heartless harlot received her diploma, as a registered nurse, at fifty years of age, was the day she served me with divorce papers at her college graduation party in front of friends and family.

The trollop moved out the next day to be with her Registered Nurse stud, in their upscale lovebird townhouse. He is handsome to a fault; like a petulant male model. Lance has a full head of hair, perfect teeth and he is twenty-five years younger than the adulteress. He showed up the day after I was served to help her get her clothes and other personal things.

My sister, Sarah, and my brother-in-law had to restrain me physically, so I didn't knock Lance's perfect teeth down his throat. Sarah and I are two years apart, and we are very close. I always looked out for her, and I taught her dirty and lethal tricks to defend herself. Heaven-help any man who messes with my sister, because they will deal with me, assuming there is something left to deal with after my brother-in-law finishes with him.

I was brought up to treat women with respect. My mother and grandmother were strong women, who married strong men and raised strong sons and daughters. I thought we had a stable and comfortable marriage. I tried to be considerate husband and open to her opinions and needs. I let the woman decorate our house the way she wanted it in flowery pastels and fashionable uncomfortable furniture, except for my wood-paneled den with my overstuffed chair and ottoman.

I paid for everything when she went to college. I paid for her plastic surgery and dental implants before she went to college. What a pile of dung! Look where being a considerate husband got me; it made me a cuckold and a chump. I didn't see it coming, as my focus was elsewhere. Those last four years of my marriage were blockbuster business years for me; our sexual relations-lovemaking was tepid at best. In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. The adulteress played me for a fool, while I was true to my marriage vows.

Granted, I'm not a handsome man in any sense of the word. I have a receding hairline, and I keep my graying hair clipped short and neat. My hands are rough and callused from heavy construction work. However, I'm in great shape for a man of fifty. At six-two, I weigh one hundred seventy, the same as when I graduated High School. I'm a direct man, and often brutally candid, circumstances allowing, but I'm honest, and I always keep my word. I gave the fornicatress certified Grade-A South Sea Island pearls, estate jewelry, from Metzenbaum Jewelers, on our third wedding anniversary. David Metzenbaum is one of the most honest men I know. She never wore them because they were "old and used." Her idea of jewelry is anything new made of gold and diamonds, ostentatious flash and garish bling. I discovered her further contempt for me when I found the necklace deliberately broken, and loose pearls scattered on our bedroom floor, on the day she moved out. There was also a note describing her sexual escapades with Lance in our marriage bed, plus a fresh urine stain, not smart, although my divorce attorney was delighted. I had the pearls cleaned and restrung, intending to sell them for a nice profit. I never got around to it though.

It was an acrimonious divorce. I hired an aggressive and ruthless woman attorney. My lawyer eviscerated the adulteress's attorney, the boyfriend's cousin. The harlot got half of the proceeds from the sale of our house and contents, except for the Bechstein Grand Piano. That was not negotiable, and she kept her jewelry.

In consideration of the fact that I paid for her education; in consideration for the income and pension she would have received from her job had we stayed married, the slattern signed off my retirement annuities and my business.

Do I sound bitter about my ex-wife? Hell yes, I was bitter! It would have been less painful had my ex-wife cut my healthy-beating heart from my chest with an Aztec sacrificial obsidian knife, and then to toss my body into an active volcano.

Two years after my divorce, I purchased a piece of property for taxes at the outskirts of town, One hundred acres with stands of hardwoods that included a modest two-story stone house and a stone barn. There is a spring fed pond on the property, emptying into a small creek, and an artesian well with sweet and cold water. I later discovered overgrown and potholed seasonal gravel road that ended at an abandoned gravel pit.

The structure and the foundations of both buildings were solid, and the most costly renovation was to the slate roof of the house. This required specialists in the building trade. I then brought the wiring and plumbing up to code. I painted the rooms in neutral, colors and purchased comfortable furniture. In time, I intended to put a concrete floor in the barn and a concrete driveway.

To celebrate being a single man again, I bought a motorcycle. It was a like new but used Red Harley Heritage Classic, and I visited some old haunts still open from my drinking and brawling days. The Black North, at Point Breeze, Lake Ontario was still open and was always my favorite.

I was wild for three years after high school, drinking, and partying in some rough bars and taverns. I worked for cash under the table at one as a bouncer-slash bartender. I eventually smartened up and joined the Army, where I put in my time and went to college on their dime. I'm not bragging, but let's say I can more than hold my own, and there are no rules in a street fight.

Having a gravel pit on the property provided me with a source of crushed stone for the driveway and barn floor. In late October, I drove down to the gravel pit on my iron horse to check things out. It was my last ride before I stored my Harley away for the winter. It rained the day before, and I noticed a series of tire tracks leading to a narrow overgrown gully on the north side.

I walked in and discovered six heavy-duty plastic trash bags full of canceled junk mail. I used my cell phone and photographed the contents of two random bags I pulled from the pile. There are serious consequences, for Postal Carriers who don't deliver all their mail.

The next day, I set up a surveillance of the road and gully with time elapse trail cameras to catch the person dumping the mail. I hoped it was my postal carrier because if it was, I had a proposition for her.

In mid-November, the cameras recorded her leaving another bag. I loaded the pictures to my laptop as evidence when I confronted her with my proposal. Before I confronted her, I called the security service I use when hiring potential employees. They provide credit histories, criminal records, and the like. Inquiries through the grapevine provided me with more information for her profile.

Mary Jones, my Postal Carrier was 42 years old, and a widow. She has outstanding credit, no debt, and her modest ranch house is mortgage free. Mary lived alone and didn't have a boyfriend. According to my grapevine sources, Mary is polite and reserved. She is a woman who will broach no nonsense. I can attest to polite and reserved from the brief conversations I had with her on my front porch.

Mary is five-seven with a willowy and curvy womanly figure. As near as I could tell through her loose uniform, she had beautifully formed round breasts and a tight, round, compact ass. Mary has red auburn hair that she hid underneath her uniform cap. It appeared to be braided, although I didn't know how long her braid was because of her ballcap. She has green eyes; a turned up nose and full, generous full lips, and a clear complexion many women would kill to have. She is a beautiful woman who plays down her natural good looks.

I learned Mary is an accomplished pianist and ardent reader. I was pleased to learn of her musical talent because I play and can read music. My Mother saw to that. My piano lesson started when I was four, and gradually tapered off when I was twelve when I took up for football, and I enrolled in Mixed Martial Arts. My father saw to that. At sixteen I discovered girls, and then it was girls and football, and the martial arts, provided I did well academically, but I digress. I learned Mary attends book club discussion groups at the Swan Library twice a week. Besides Music, Mary also is into antiques, flea markets, and community theatre.

A week before Christmas, on a Friday, I greeted her at my mailbox and gave her a sealed red envelope. The envelope contained a Christmas card and photos of her dumping the trash bag. The following Saturday evening at around six, Mary appeared at my front door and said, "Mr. Stone, we need to talk."

I invited her in and asked her to sit down at the kitchen table. She took off her long puffy teal green down coat, hand-knit red hat, and sat down. She was wearing a baggy white cable knit sweater, and baggy faded blue jeans and pink moon boots.

She wasn't wearing any makeup, but then I never saw her wearing makeup, and truthfully, she is beautiful with or without it. Perhaps it was because she didn't have a man in her life, or perhaps not. Mary's styled her hair in a single three strand braid down her back. It ended at the bottom of her pert ass. The braid was very thick although it tapered almost to a point the last six inches. I wondered what she would look like with bangs.

I offered her a cup of coffee or tea, and she declined. I sat down with my coffee, took a sip, and said, "I have you dead to rights, Mary, and I'm not interested in your reasons or excuses. You know the consequences."

I slid a green envelope on the table and said, "I've written down my proposal. Six months from now, I'll burn the mail, and bury the ashes. You may even enjoy our time together. I want six months of your time, mostly on the weekends, occasionally during the week if something comes up. Call it an adventurous tryst. You can trust me to keep my word. I'll give you a week to decide and get ready." I stood up, and so did she, gathering up her coat, and not bothering to put it on. I showed her to the door and opened it. Mary walked on to the porch, and then turned and looked at me. "Well, Mary, what's your decision?" She took a deep breath as if to say something, but instead walked to her Green Jeep Wrangler and drove away.

The next Saturday morning Mary arrived at her appointed time. I let her in and locked the door behind her. Per my instructions, she had styled her long hair in a classic braided chignon. She removed her down coat and was wearing a fitted white ruffled front silk blouse with a dark grey skirt. Perhaps for the first time in her life, Mary was wearing a red lace garter belt to hold up her stockings. She was also wearing high heels, something she was unaccustomed to by the way she walked in them.

I opened the pocket doors leading to the next room and walked through. Mary followed me in and went right to the piano and put her hand lovingly on it. She had an expression on her face as if fighting back a smile and said, "It is magnificent, Mr. Stone. This Bechstein is an Art Nouveau model in mahogany with contrasting wood inlays. I'm amazed you own such a thing. Did you purchase it for investment purposes; or is it merely an expensive ornament to stroke your leviathan ego?"

I ignored the sarcasm and said, "I know you are an accomplished pianist. This piano was my Mother's. It was a wedding gift from my father. I had it tuned for you. I can play. However, compared to you, I'm a clumsy amateur where the piano is concerned. I have callouses on my hands and dirt underneath my fingernails. My playing is anything but refined and mechanical at best. I can tell you appreciate what a fine instrument it is. I want you to play this sheet music."

Mary picked up the sheet music from the rack, looked at it, and asked, "You want me to play Rachmaninoff's 3rd piano concerto? Can you play it, Mr. Stone?" She said, knowing what a difficult piece it is as she placed the sheet music back on the music rack.

"I wouldn't attempt playing Rachmaninoff in front of you at the risk of embarrassing myself," I truthfully answered, "I tried after it was tuned. You, on the other hand, are special, and I mean it as a compliment. You graduated from University of Rochester Eastman School of Music, my Mother and Grandmother's alma mater. They were both music teachers. You have a Masters in Music, am I wrong?"

She didn't answer except to say, "I have to take my shoes off first," and Mary sat on the bench and removed her high heels. She began to play, and it was a privilege to watch her confident hands work the keys like a lover's caress. There was nothing passive or shy about her aggressive and precise style of playing. Mary is more than an accomplished pianist. I looked at my large stubby fingers and smiled.

I then closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, each note a lover's kiss. Her playing moved me, and when she finished, I said, Beautiful music is the art of the prophets that can calm the agitations of the soul; it is one of the most magnificent and delightful presents God has given us." Mary turned and looked at me. "You're quoting Martin Luther. Did you recently memorize it for my benefit, and am I supposed to be impressed?" "Despite my rough edges, I'm not without some refinement. My name is Michael. I have a Masters in architectural engineering from RIT thanks to Uncle Sam."

"Are you trying to calm the agitation of your soul with me because of your vitriolic divorce, Mr. Stone?"

"I stand by the quote. What do you know about my divorce?" I asked surprised, perhaps a bit angry of what she might know.

"It is a matter of public record." She replied matter-of-factly.

"Something tells me you know more about me than you're telling me," and I was thinking about the ex-wife's graduation party.

"Perhaps, I do, and perhaps I'll tell you six months from now."

"Tell me now."

"That's not part of our agreement," Mary replied, and she was right. Loopholes like this are what happens when amateurs like me draw up proposals.

"I'll answer all your questions in six months if you do the same, agreed?"

"I'll think about it, Mr. Stone But then, why should I. I don't like you, Mr. Stone."

"Well, being available as my lover and companion is part of our agreement, and all the stated and implied particulars thereof." I walked into the front room, and she followed. I pointed to a spot on the floor in front of my leather chair and directed her to stand there before I sat down.

I was in control again. While Mary was standing there, I opened the waiting bottle of chilled Champagne and sipped a glass, while she slowly partially stripped for me. I stopped her when she is wearing only her stockings and garter belt and red silk lace panties.

"Come here and sit on my lap," and when she did, I said, "Your nipples are hard, and you are blushing," and I removed the hairpins from Mary's bun and watched her braid drop down between her ass cheeks. I said, "Chantilly lace, my pretty Lady, and soon your ponytail will be hanging down."

I was referring to her short red silk camisole and matching panties trimmed with Chantilly lace. "Your breasts are magnificent, sweet Mary. Is your delicious plump pussy, moist and welcoming? Perhaps I will taste your sweet nectar now, as an appetizer to what I have planned for us." She didn't answer. I chuckled and said, "Fine ignore me."

Now I should mention, I picked out and paid in advance for everything she was wearing this day, ergo her appointments to some very exclusive establishments. I'm including everything she will be wearing when with me for the next six months. Mary will wear next to her skin, only the best garments and lingerie of fine cotton, cashmere, and wool, linen, and silk. There were to be more appointments to follow. The only thing missing were pearls. Silk and pearls complement the beauty of a woman, and her essence enhances their soft luster.

I took her hair out of the braid, and then ponytail, watching as Mary's luxurious hair flowed long and silky to the bottom of her ass cheeks. It was very beautiful, and a definite turn-on.

"Do you like prime rib and fresh seafood?" I asked as Mary sat on my lap.

"Why do you ask, Mr. Stone?" She said, gaining her composure after realizing I didn't intend to be rough or harsh with her.

"I have late lunch reservations in a private booth for us at Delmonico's. I will be wearing a dark blue suit, and it will be a pleasure to have you on my arm."

"Do you mean like a date?" Mary asked, surprised I would do such a thing, "Delmonico's is very expensive."

"Yes, like a date, and if I asked you to go out on a date without coercion, would you have accepted?" and she didn't answer, so I said, "You wouldn't have accepted because, after five years, you're still grieving for your husband, Life ..." She got off my lap and interrupted.

"How dare you!" and there was anger in Mary's voice, and fire in her green eyes, "My private life is none of your business. Leave it out of this!"

I stood up and said, "You're right, Mary, it isn't my business. I'm going have my say, regardless. You loved your husband, and you miss him. I get it. Perhaps you feel betrayed that he died and left you. It is not your fault, or his either. You were blessed with a loving relationship right to the end. I envy you for it. For five years you have been true and loyal to that love and his memory.

My wife abandoned me after twenty years. I was true and loyal while she committed adultery. I should have seen it coming. It was a well-planned betrayal starting sixteen years into our marriage. If you don't already know, I'll tell you. She served me with divorce papers at her college graduation party with friends and family attending. She didn't love me at all. It was all a lie. I was a means to and end. Life goes on. I've moved on.

Maybe you should too..." and despite being practically naked, she slapped my face. What a little spitfire!

"You can go to hell, you bastard. How dare you tell me how to live my life!"

I smiled, my confession to her was a burden lifted from my soul, and I said, "Excellent, honest and passionate anger. I admire that. Tell me what you are thinking. Do you want to hit me again?"

I crushed her to me and kissed her lips. I then stepped back smiling at the indignant look on her face, adding to her anger.

She slapped my face again, and I said, "You taste delicious, and that slap was worth a kiss. You're upset; get it out of your system. You have my permission to try and hit me again."

Mary tried, and this time throwing roundhouse punches. I moved out of the way or blocked her fists with my palm so as not to hurt her. She took two steps back, glaring razor-sharp daggers, telegraphing her intentions with her posture and eyes and said, "Stop showing off! Stand still and let me hit you, damn it! Are you afraid I'll hurt you, tough, guy?"

"I didn't say I'd let you hit me, so don't even think about kicking me where it counts. I get it, OK. You don't want to be here. You're here under protest, and I'm an uncultured bastard. I suggest you make the best of it. Lovers shouldn't be hitting each other in anger. I'm going upstairs to get dressed."